


The Santa Claws

by Chubstilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (year?) and more!, Alive Hale pack, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Belly Kink, Christmas, Chubby Derek Hale, Crack Treated Seriously, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Monster of the Week, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Rebuilt Hale House, Stuffing, Weight Gain, but lbr this is mostly, chock full of your old school sterek fic faves! such as, featuring smatterings of:, magical weight gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27228661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chubstilinski/pseuds/Chubstilinski
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Stiles accidentally kills Santa Claus and he and Derek get roped into soaring around the country in a sleigh, delivering gifts to children. The elves at the North Pole tell Derek that he's the new Santa whether he likes it or not, and he starts undergoing a gradual transformation—from a muscular, brooding werewolf, into a fat, jolly symbol of Christmas. Will Stiles be able to save him from his fate?The Santa Clause WG fic nobody needed but you're getting it anyway! You're welcome!
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 20
Kudos: 87





	The Santa Claws

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been in the works for an ETERNITY and I've waffled on posting this chapter for a very long time because I have only the faintest idea of where this is going, but you know what??? yolo
> 
> Thank you to everyone who helped look this over for me!!! 
> 
> Also this has considerably more plot than i bet you're used to seeing out of me, but i swear there’s kink in here somewhere, just give it a chapter or two lol

Stiles eased the Jeep to a stop about a mile out from Derek’s house. It was Christmas Eve, and he had a small, hastily-wrapped gift on the passenger’s seat. He stared at it, chewing on his bottom lip. 

_Last chance to turn back,_ Stiles thought.

He took a deep, bracing breath, and kept driving. 

The road wasn’t plowed out in the Preserve, so it was the dusting of fresh, white snow that kept Stiles driving slow. It wasn’t because he was nervous, or because there was a growing certainty in his chest that this was an absolutely terrible idea. He was just being cautious. Cautious was his middle name. 

Stiles knew Derek could hear him coming, but he noted, relieved, that he wasn’t standing on the porch waiting for him to get there like he sometimes did. It gave Stiles another few seconds to steel his nerves. 

He pocketed the gift and crept up to the house. The door opened before he had the chance to knock. 

Derek’s eyes were squinty and suspicious, maybe annoyed, which was pretty par for the course, so Stiles took a brief moment to hate himself for being disappointed by it. He shouldn’t have expected anything else. 

He took another moment to give him a once over—take in the way he was dressed comfortably in a threadbare t-shirt and sweatpants that dug into his sides. It was considerably more revealing than the looser shirts and leather jacket he always had on these days, and he looked soft; softer even than he’d been looking over the past few months. _Relaxed._ Like an athlete who’s settled down and stopped trying to be as jacked as physically possible. 

Now, though. Stiles felt the itch to catalogue, to calculate how much he must’ve gained over the holidays. Ten pounds, maybe. 

He shook himself out of it and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Derek said, “If you came by to pick up those books, they haven’t gotten here yet.”

Stiles was a little taken aback. He stopped fiddling with the wrapping paper of the gift in his pocket and put his hands up defensively. “You think I came over on Christmas Eve to do _research?”_

It was Derek’s birthday, too, which Stiles wasn’t sure if he was supposed to know. 

Derek rolled his eyes and opened the door so Stiles could step out of the cold. He folded his arms, which was distracting for two reasons: the way their beefiness kept him from being able to do it properly, and the way it scrunched together his soft pecs. His shirt had a tastefully deep V, and Stiles’s mind screamed _cleavage._

Derek said, “I think your dad’s probably working, everyone else you know is asleep because it’s the middle of the damn night, and you want a distraction.”

Derek wasn’t wrong, per se, and Stiles hated and loved how well Derek knew him. But he wasn’t completely right, either. 

Peter and Cora would be arriving tomorrow, and Stiles wanted to face this with only Derek to watch him humiliate himself, rather than his entire family. Even if they were out of the room, they would almost certainly overhear. Nosiness was probably a part of the werewolf genome. 

So now was the time to give him the gift, but he was hesitating. Faced with it, his heart was fluttering in his chest, panicky, and he kept thinking of all those times he tried to give gifts to Lydia, and how well that turned out for him. And _this_ —this gift was a thousand times more personal than a TV or any one of the asenine things he’d bought to try to impress her. 

Intellectually, he knew Derek wouldn’t reject it, not like that, but Stiles also suspected that it would leave something in him exposed. A paranoid part of him was afraid Derek would be able to feel nebulously love-shaped feelings seeping out of the gift in waves. 

Stiles had spent hours, days, weeks making it, at least that much was clear. It was substantially neater and better made than the one he’d given his father, the obvious first recipient. Scott’s was next, and by then his braiding and attention to detail had improved enough that it wasn’t completely hideous, but it wasn’t exactly the work of a master craftsman, either. 

Derek’s was perfect, or as perfect as Stiles could manage with beginner’s skills. It was just a bracelet, but it wasn’t. It was a powerful protection charm, and it was a declaration, pointing too obviously at Derek’s significance to him. With any luck, he would assume Stiles had done it because he was their alpha, and not because if he had to watch Derek get hurt _one more time,_ Stiles was going to kill him himself. 

Derek thought he’d come to the Hale house on Christmas Eve for a distraction from his problems, but the reality was that he _was_ most of Stiles’s current problems. He wasn’t about to say any of that, so he just managed to sputter an unconvincing, “Nuh uh.”

Derek let out a soft huff of laughter, the edges of his mouth barely turned up in a smile, and walked towards the kitchen. He took a pot off the stove as Stiles walked up behind him. 

“What’s that?” 

“Hot chocolate.” 

“That smells amazing.”

“Secret recipe.”

Stiles’s eyes widened and he let out a bark of laughter. “You have a _secret hot chocolate recipe?_ ” 

Derek didn’t reply, but the apples of his cheeks flushed with color. He poured a mug for Stiles without him having to ask, and dropped a dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon over each. When he handed Stiles his mug, he took it gratefully in both hands like it was a precious artifact. It felt like it was. 

Derek hadn’t decorated for Christmas, but then neither had the Stilinskis, just like they hadn’t for nearly ten years. So Stiles got it. This was still new—the Hale house, rebuilt. There were no Christmas lights on it, and there was no tree, but there was a functional, tasteful kitchen and perfect cup of hot cocoa in Stiles’s hands, and that meant something. 

He took a sip and immediately scalded his tongue. He fanned it, but it didn’t help. Derek just watched him, eyebrow cocked in vague amusement, and blew a stream of air over the surface of his. He said, “What are you really doing here, Stiles?” 

Stiles cleared his throat, stared down at the tile floor, and opened his mouth. Nothing came out, so he licked his lips free of whipped cream and tried again. He knew Derek could hear the furious rhythm of his heartbeat and it did nothing to calm his nerves. “So, uh. Christmas, huh?”

There was a sound, suddenly, like something big and heavy was stomping across the roof. _Several_ somethings. Or one something with a lot of legs. In this town, you could never be sure.

Stiles stared at the ceiling and whispered, “What the hell was that?”

“Stay here,” Derek growled through fangs, dropping his mug on the counter and pushing him out of the way with clawed hands. 

“Like hell I—”

Derek turned his head and flashed dangerous, red eyes at him, like Stiles was one of his betas. “Stiles, _stay here._ ”

There was no point in arguing when he was like this, so Stiles waited for his footsteps to reach the landing of the second floor before peering out of the kitchen windows. Stiles couldn’t see anything—just the desolate dark of the Preserve, just barely bright enough to see because of the light pollution’s reflection off of the snow. 

He slipped out the back door and stretched out his fingers. Power burned through him, fierce and bright, tingling through his palms. He started off at a run, winced as his footsteps loudly crunched through the snow, but kept going until he was far enough from the house to see the roof and—huh. 

There was a man in red standing on top of the house. A man with a white, bushy beard. Stiles blinked for a moment, screwed up his eyes and opened them again to make sure he was really seeing what he was seeing. 

Stiles cycled through several emotions. Surprise and confusion were almost immediately overtaken by a probably suicidal urge to laugh, but Stiles knew that just because he looked like Santa Claus didn’t mean he didn’t pose a threat. Mostly, though, in that moment he was deeply, deeply annoyed. 

Of _course_ this shit would happen on Christmas Eve, and of _course_ it would be the exact moment where Stiles was trying to work up the nerve to give Derek that stupid gift. Which is why Stiles shouted up at the man on the roof, “Hey, buddy, what the hell do you think you’re doing!”

The man screamed and slipped, slid on the ice, and Stiles’s hands flew up, flailing, as if to brace him, but the magic didn’t come quickly enough. The man’s foot met the pitched part of the roof and he fell. He landed on the ground with a sickening crunch. 

“Holy shit!” 

Stiles ran over to the man lying prone on the ground and skidded to a halt as he watched him burst into flames. 

“What the fuck, what the fuck,” he said, desperately. 

Derek charged out of the door, yelling, “Stiles! Are you okay?” 

“Uh, yup.”

Stiles crept towards it—what was now charred ashes still sparking with mostly extinguished flame, framing a suspiciously pristine suit in the exact shape of a person. He nudged it with the toe of his shoe. 

Derek said, “What happened?”

“Uh,” Stiles said, eyes wide as he looked from the suit up to the roof of Derek’s house. He put his hands on his hips, sighed and said, “Dude, I’m gonna be honest here. This isn’t really what I was expecting.” 

“Did you…” It looked like it was physically painful for Derek to force out the words, “Blow up Santa Claus?” 

“What?! No. Jesus, Derek. He just—“ Stiles wove his hands in the direction of the scorched remains, “I don’t know! Fell.” 

Derek crossed his arms over his chest and said, “He _fell?”_

“And _then_ he exploded.”

“Unbelievable. I leave you alone for one minute—“

“Hey! You know, if you were right, which you’re _not,_ by the way, _I’m_ the one who got rid of… whoever this was. You should be thanking me, wolf man.” 

“For _what?_ Killing a mall Santa in my yard?”

“I didn’t kill him! Come on, do you really think I just came out here and used weapons grade magic on some random dick in a costume? Get real.” 

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Oh, low blow, dude. I haven’t accidentally blown anyone up in years. And I would hardly have called them _innocent.”_

Derek rolled his eyes but waved a hand in concession. Stiles knelt down to inspect the ashes. “Besides,” he said, reaching his pointer finger out, “This was clearly some kind of demon, right? This is not… normal.”

“Stiles, don’t touch that.”

“Ow,” Stiles said. He stuck his burned finger in his mouth. 

Derek sighed, said, “We should call Scott and the others.”

“Yeah, in a minute.” Stiles ran his fingers over the fuzzy white trim on the coat. 

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for clues, duh. For a sheriff’s deputy, you suck at solving crime.”

As he touched the pocket on the side, a business card slipped out and fluttered into the ash. Stiles grabbed it before it got too singed. It said merely _Santa Claus,_ sub-headline: _North Pole._ On the other side, it read: _If something should happen to me, put on my suit. The reindeer will know what to do._

There was no phone number, no email, no company name. “Creepy,” Stiles said. 

He handed it to Derek, who inspected it for all of a second before saying, “It’s just a business card.”

Indignant, Stiles said, “Just a—for what _business?_ Flip it over.”

He did, and his brow furrowed as he read. “Hm.” Derek handed the card back to Stiles and he pocketed it. 

“You should put it on, see what happens,” Stiles said. 

“No.”

“Come onnn, I think it’d suit you.”

“Shut up. You want a real clue? I can show you one. Follow me.”

Stiles sighed and got to his feet, dusting snow off the knees of his jeans. He followed Derek around to the side of the house, where he had a ladder lying on the ground that he’d been using to repair the part of the gutter that had been damaged in a harpy attack. Derek lifted it with one hand as if it weighed nothing at all, set it against the roof and started to climb. 

Stiles took the opportunity to admire the curves of his ass and the way the slight softness of his sides swelled above the waistband of his sweats before following him. 

He heard them before he saw them: the sound of huge animals clopping their hooves on the roof where they stood, huffing breath through their noses… jingling. There was a lot of jingling. 

And lo and behold, when Stiles reached the top, there was an honest-to-god sleigh attached to nine enormous reindeer on Derek’s roof. 

“Dude, what the fuck.” Stiles grunted, heaving himself up. “This is not happening. I refuse to believe this is happening.”

“You personally beheaded a _chupacabra_ about six months ago. This is really where you draw the line?”

 _“Yes.”_ Stiles tread carefully across the ice so he could get closer to one of the reindeer. Its hackles rose and it grunted at him distrustfully as if _it_ was the one who should be distrustful in this situation. “Chupacabras are one thing, Derek. This is—I don’t know what this is. What do you think this _is?_ ”

“What, no theories yet?” 

“Off the top of my head?” He ticked off on his fingers, “Fairies, alternate reality, demons, wolfsbane hallucination, dream magic, witches, trickster, shapeshifters, some kind of Krampus-like holiday-specific nightmare creature. The only thing I’ve ruled out so far is _Christmas Miracle.”_

Stiles slipped a little on the way towards the sleigh, teetering for barely a second before Derek grabbed his arm. Stiles let out a breath and looked up to find Derek close, close enough that he could feel the warm bursts of breath on his face, trailing from Derek’s mouth in smoky clouds. Derek reached out his hand and said, “Give me your phone, I’m calling Scott.”

Stiles pulled the phone out of his pocket at exactly the same moment one of the reindeer shook out its head. Its antler knocked the phone from Stiles’s hand and sent it hurtling to the ground. When it hit the edge of the roof, the sound of broken plastic and glass was unmistakable, and he watched as it bounced off the edge and fell into the snow on the ground three stories below. Just like Santa. 

Reflexively, Stiles closed his eyes and drew energy from the earth, focused until the phone hit his palm. The glass was shattered, screen dark behind it, no matter what buttons he pressed. He tried shooting a bit of electricity through his fingertips to see if it would wake, but all he did was shock himself, making him drop the phone off the roof again. 

Stiles pointed an angry finger at the deer. “You little asshole! That is the third phone this year I’ve lost to this kind of bullshit!”

Derek said, “Let’s go back inside.”

Stiles sighed, trying to shake off his irritation. He said, “In a minute, I wanna look at this stupid sleigh first.”

Up close it was like nothing he’d ever seen: intricate gold detailing on shiny reddish wood, and startlingly authentic. He climbed into it, studying its contents. The back was loaded with red velvet sacks overflowing with gifts in shiny wrapping paper. The dashboard had various knobs and buttons whose purposes were mysterious to him. It was nothing like a car—nothing like anything he’d ever seen. 

Suddenly, the reindeer jerked the sleigh a foot or so forward. Stiles screeched and fell back onto the bench. 

That’s when he noticed the suit. It was under his ass and folded neatly: pants, jacket, suspenders, hat, and belt, boots on the floor, all of them delicately singed. 

“Whoa, what? Derek, come look at this.”

Derek looked at the suit and his eyebrows furrowed. He turned back to peer over the rooftop. “There’s nothing down there anymore. How did those get here?” 

“Fuck if I know, dude.” He did some jazz hands. “Magic”

“Christ.” Derek pinched his nose in the space between his eyes as if he’d contracted a migraine from the sheer absurdity of the situation. Stiles knew the feeling. 

Derek sat on the bench next to him and in an instant, the sleigh shot forward. The reindeer broke into a sprint and sent them hurtling off the edge of the roof. Stiles shouted and grabbed onto Derek’s shirt and they went into a freefall for one terrifying second before they were airborne. 

“Oh my god!” Stiles screamed. 

Derek held onto him with one arm and the sleigh with the other. He looked as if he was contemplating jumping for a moment, but they were already too high up, especially for Stiles. Derek said, “Can you do something? Can you make them stop?” 

“Unfortunately I don’t know how to _mind control,_ and if I did, I’d be busy using it to make you less _annoying._ ” It was a valid question, and Stiles knew he was being unfair. He said, “I could… I could try to teleport us, but Derek—” Last time Stiles tried that particular spell, he landed himself in the hospital. He wasn’t strong enough, and he knew it. 

“No. It’s fine. We’ll find another way.”

They went sailing above the trees, higher and higher, and the twinkling lights of Beacon Hills glittered below them. It was pretty, and if this were any other situation, Stiles would have been ecstatic. A part of him still was; they were _flying._ But as it was, he was mostly just annoyed. Again. 

Once he was reasonably certain they weren’t going to die, he loosened his grip on Derek’s t-shirt and patted his chest apologetically. It jiggled a little, god help him, and he cleared his throat and shifted a couple feet over so he wasn’t plastered against Derek anymore. He hazarded a look at his face, which was twisted into mild irritation. Stiles said, “Well. Go ahead and say it. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I fucking told you we should’ve gone inside.”

“Yes, you did. Feel better?”

“Not. Really.” 

He was shivering, arms folded together. It was freezing so high up, and Derek’s ensemble, however appealing, was sorely lacking in the warmth department. His bare arms were covered in goosebumps. Stiles had a sudden urge to give Derek his jacket like they were on a date, but then he thought of something better. He smirked. 

“You’re cold,” Stiles said.

Derek leveled him with a devastating glare. “No shit.”

Stiles lifted up the Santa coat and shook the ashes out. “You know, it just so happens that we have a perfectly good coat here. Looks warm, too.”

“No.”

“Come on, man, you’re gonna catch your death out here.”

“I would rather die than put that on.”

“Jesus, you’re so vain sometimes. You’re worse than Jackson.” 

“It’s not—Someone just _died_ in that, Stiles.”

“Yeah, so no one’s using it! It’s perfect.” 

“No.”

“Exposure is no way to die, man. Don’t let your pride get the better of you.”

Derek growled and bared his teeth. After a couple of seconds he said, shivering, “What did that business card say?”

 _“If something should happen to me, put on my suit,”_ Stiles recited. _“The reindeer will know what to do.”_

“And what about that makes you think putting on the suit sounds like a good idea, exactly?”

“The reindeer have already whisked us off to the fucking North Pole or whatever, I doubt it even matters.” 

_“No.”_

“Come on, put it on. Please please please.” 

Derek was trying to ignore him so Stiles took the initiative to drape the coat over his shoulders for him. Derek’s face was furious, but to Stiles’s surprise, he kept it on. It only encouraged him. He picked up the hat next and perched it on Derek’s head. He looked murderous, and Stiles laughed so hard he thought he might puke. 

Derek made like he was taking it off, and Stiles reached out to hold the collar in place. “No, no, no. I’m sorry, I’m so—” Stiles let out another peel of laughter. “I’m sorry. Keep it on. You look great, I promise. Best Santa ever.”

Derek made a sound in his throat like a growl and angrily shoved his arms through the sleeves, wrapping the coat around himself. God, Stiles wished he had his phone. This would have been his lockscreen for the rest of his _life._

“Don’t look so grumpy, Mr. Grinch. It’s Christmas!” 

“Glad to see that laughing at my expense has renewed your Christmas spirit.”

“You really have no idea.”

The sleigh inched closer and closer to the ground and Stiles realized he didn’t know where they were. Some unfamiliar town, but they couldn’t have gone far. It had only been a few minutes. 

“I think we’re in Hawkins,” Derek said. 

“What? That’s at least a couple of hours away from Beacon Hills, how could we have gotten there already?”

 _“Magic,”_ Derek mocked, hands shimmying in the most aggressive jazz hands Stiles had ever seen. 

Stiles rolled his eyes and then yelped, gripping onto the dashboard as the sleigh swooped lower. 

Soon they were cascading over the rooftops of a pristine suburban development until the reindeer slowed their ride just above an unremarkable house. They landed more smoothly than Stiles expected, and rather than a clatter on the roof, the landing was near-silent. 

Stiles looked over at Derek, who had his arms crossed and his face creased with a frown that bordered on a pout. He looked miserable and contradictory despite the festive cheer of his outfit, and it nearly sent Stiles spiraling into another laughing fit. He managed to choke it back and said, “Okay. What now?”

One of the sacks in the back of the sleigh hurled forward, smacking Derek in the back of the head. A bark of a laugh shot out of Stiles’s mouth, and Derek leveled him with a glare that years ago would’ve had Stiles thinking he was about to get his ass beat into the ground. Now, he knew better. The sack floated harmlessly in front of them, upside down, dangling the end of the drawstring like some kind of lumpy, velvet balloon. 

Derek eyed it suspiciously. Stiles grabbed on to the string and tugged it down, holding it between his knees so he could take a look inside. The gifts looked normal enough, though unlike his own gift wrapping skills, they were supernaturally perfect. There wasn’t even any visible tape on the seams. He picked one up and rested each of his hands on the sides, allowing his power to illuminate the contents of the package. 

Every single one had a toy inside, and nothing about any of them seemed immediately malicious. 

“I don’t know, dude. They seem normal.” Stiles sighed. “So do you think we should go walk to the nearest convenience store and try to call someone?”

The sack started rumbling and shaking, and suddenly shot from between Stiles’s knees to hang aggressively in Derek’s face. 

Derek snarled. “What is this thing’s problem?”

“I think it wants us to take those to the kiddos, Derek.” 

“Jesus.”

“So. Here’s a crazy idea. Option B: we go along with this little charade, play Santa for the night and see if we can figure out what's going on.”

Derek grumbled, but took the boots off the floor and jammed his feet in them. He stood up and grabbed the drawstring in his hand. The sack floated up higher and higher until it was dragging Derek with it. His feet were floating several inches off the ground and he kicked his legs and yelled, “Stiles!”

He let go of the string and jumped down to the roof, landing in a poised, wolfy crouch. The sack hovered above him, waiting. 

Stiles climbed out of the sleigh, slowly, so he didn’t startle the sack. Derek stood up and they stared at it for a moment. Gingerly, Stiles reached out for the string, but it did nothing. 

He said, “It’s all you, dude. I think it likes you ‘cause you’re wearing that stupid outfit.”

Derek sneered. “Of course it does.” 

He ripped off the hat and shoved it on Stiles’s head, over his eyes. “Hey!” 

He lifted up the fluffy edge of the hat and glared at Derek for a moment before trying again, but it was no use. The thing only wanted Derek. 

Derek sighed, snatched the string out of Stiles’s hand and began to float towards the chimney. It let him dangle over it for a moment before sucking his oversized body and the sack of presents through. The whole thing was cartoonish and vaguely sickening. 

Stiles scrambled over to the edge of the chimney and peered down. It was sooty and black and empty. He sneezed and then stage whispered, “Derek!”

Derek’s head popped through the fireplace and looked up at him. “I’m okay. There’s people home, so shut up while I do this.”

Stiles was not good at waiting. As far as he was concerned Derek should just do what the sack wanted as quickly as possible so they could get the hell out of here and back home. He would’ve just dumped the whole bag on the floor and bolted, but Derek seemed to be taking his sweet time. 

Stiles paced on the (blissfully ice-free) roof and then tried to entertain himself by befriending one of the reindeer.

“Hey there,” Stiles said, in a simpering baby voice. He looked at the tag around its neck. “Comet.”

It grunted. Stiles reached out to pet it’s nose, and it bit him. 

“Ow! Watch it, you furry fuck!”

Finally Derek emerged, sack of gifts just a little lighter than when he left. Stiles said, “What the hell took you so long.”

“I told you, there were people in there. I could hear someone snoring. I was trying to be quiet and not wake anybody so we wouldn’t get arrested for breaking and entering.” He shoved the bag at Stiles’s chest and stalked back to the sleigh. “You’re welcome.” 

Stiles followed him. “Yeah, I don’t think that would do wonders for your criminal record. Especially now that you’re an officer of the law.”

Derek dropped onto the bench. “My record was expunged, which is more than I can say for yours.”

“Touché.”

Stiles threw the sack into the back of the sleigh and the reindeer started to move immediately, before he even had the chance to sit down. He fell back and grabbed onto slippery wood with all his might while they were hurtled into the sky. 

When he caught his breath, Stiles said, “If we’re supposed to be playing Santa, why are we skipping so many people? Why come to _this_ town in _this_ neighborhood just to go to that one house? What’s special about it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Help me out here, Derek. What was inside? Did anything seem weird?”

“No, it was just a normal house.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure. If you don’t trust me, come to the next one yourself.”

“I trust you, I just—ugh. There’s got to be something we’re missing.”

At the next house, in another town that neither of them recognized, they stood on some stranger’s roof and Derek stared at Stiles’s outstretched hand like it was a fungus. He tried not to be offended, but it was pretty offensive. He waved his hand and inched it closer to Derek’s. “Hold my fucking hand, asshole. I wanna come with.”

Derek rolled his eyes and grabbed Stiles’s hand in a death grip and then the string in the other. Stiles barely got used to the sensation of floating before he was being sucked through a too-skinny chimney like a pneumonic tube, feeling like his internal organs were being crushed. 

Stiles stumbled out of the fireplace and landed on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. “What the hell,” he whispered. His ears popped

Derek heaved him up by his elbow and paused to listen. “Holly Jolly Christmas” played low on the radio, but he must not have found anyone awake, because he stalked over to the Christmas tree, sack tossed casually over one shoulder. 

Stiles decided to take a look around, but Derek was right. Aside from possibly the ugliest paisley sofa he’d ever seen, It was just a normal house. The living room was outdated, but nothing was out of the ordinary. The tree was red and gold themed. There was a nearly empty cardboard advent calendar in the kitchen, and a tragically empty bottle of eggnog on the counter. 

He tried sensing around for magic, but there was nothing really distinct. The only thread that was strong enough aside from Derek’s alpha power led Stiles back to the living room and the magic sack. 

It was crumpled on the floor and Derek was hunched over a small table topped with a plate of Christmas cookies. He was shoving one in his mouth, and from the looks of things, it was not his first. 

“Dude, what are you doing?”

Derek tossed him a look, like maybe he was embarrassed about being caught but trying to look indignant. He finished chewing, dusted off his hands and said, “They’re for me, aren’t they?”

“Technically they’re probably for that dead guy, but I guess _he’s_ not going to eat them.”

Derek rolled his eyes and grabbed the sack off the floor and then Stiles’s upper arm and dragged him to the fireplace. 

Stiles couldn’t find anything in the second house either, or the third, or the fourth. After ten he started to get bored of the whole thing, mystery aside. After 20, he was exhausted, agitated, on edge, for the obvious reasons as well as several other reasons he didn’t care to examine with a walking emotion sniffer following him around. There was only so much his mental wards could do. 

They were in some tastefully minimalist 5,000 square foot bordering on a mansion monstrosity and Stiles hated everything about it. 

He hated that the living room looked like something out of a catalogue, that the tree was so perfect, it had to have been decorated by a hired professional, that Derek was working his way through a dozen decadent-looking sugar cookies that were probably bought from an overpriced bougie organic bakery and his stomach was visibly swollen with them, combined indecently with between 4 and 6 cookies, on average, from 21 different houses. Only two out of the 23, so far, hadn’t had any at all. Even if he assumed there hadn’t been any at the first house, either, that had to be at least 84 cookies, give or take. 

And he looked it. His belly was round and packed solid, making him inch closer and closer to filling out that Santa costume with every single bite. Stiles couldn’t imagine why Derek kept stuffing his face like this, but he had never fought back so many awkward boners in his entire _life—_ Even when he was thirteen and desperate and Lydia had just gotten boobs. Even when he was seventeen and Derek was always walking around in those stupid-tight jeans that cradled his ass perfectly and stripping off his shirt at any available opportunity. 

Stiles was not seventeen anymore, and he was definitely not thirteen, and he was not _that_ desperate. He did pretty well for himself back at school, away from his admittedly weird Beacon Hills reputation, and although he hadn’t managed to ditch his long-suffering crush on Derek like he’d hoped, he was doing just _fine._

He had prepared himself emotionally for that particular tidal wave of feelings once he returned for winter break, for covering the tracks of his emotions around supernatural assholes, and even for the potentiality of Derek’s realization and subsequent rejection. 

But he wasn’t prepared for this—for Derek’s post-holiday body weight, for him eating his post-holiday body weight in cookies, right where Stiles could watch him do it, for the way the ridges in his Henley spread wide in the middle to accommodate his swollen belly. 

“Oh my god, dude,” Stiles snapped. “This is like the twentieth house, you cannot possibly still be hungry.”

Derek licked his fingers clean of frosting and asked, “Do you want one?”

“Yes.” Stiles’s face felt burning hot. His breath was coming out in short, aggravated bursts. He grabbed a cookie and shoved it in his mouth. It _was_ good. Dammit. He talked through the crumbs. “But that’s not the point. Seriously, does your super healing make your stomach just, like, stretch out indefinitely?”

“Yes.” Derek bit into another cookie. 

_Oh, fuck._ Stiles swallowed. “Huh,” he said, nodding. “Cool.” 

He left the living room for a hallway he’d already examined and tried to distract himself. He could do that. Just focus on how disturbing these people’s family portrait was for something that wasn’t even haunted. Stiles looked at their creepy, smiling faces and took a series of deep breaths. Stiles wished there was at least a wall of separation between him and Derek. It wouldn’t help, but it would make Stiles feel better. He hated open floor plans. 

  
  


At the 36th house, resigned to his terrible fate, Stiles leaned in the doorway of a stranger’s kitchen and watched Derek scarf down several homemade chocolate chip cookies, as if he hadn’t done exactly the same thing at 29 other houses, but who was counting? 

He didn’t try to stop him again, because nothing Stiles had said the entire evening had stymied Derek’s appetite even a little. It was fascinating and a little distressing and he was certain, now, that it had something to do with this whole scenario. 

So Stiles watched him for signs of distress or coercion, not finding anything in particular except for eyes glazed over with gluttony and an encyclopedic knowledge of Derek’s soft yummy noises and how, sometimes, he would try to burp quietly, under his breath, but Stiles could still hear it as clear as day. 

When he’d finished a record high of eight cookies at once, Derek turned around and leaned back against the counter, bracing a hand on the distended crest of his stomach. His eyes were closed and his breath came out in shallow pants and Stiles’s confusion and arousal were barely masked behind the layer of magic he had protecting him. 

When Derek finally opened his eyes, Stiles said, “How’s it going, big guy?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Great.” He stalked towards him and Stiles plastered himself against the doorjamb so Derek could squeeze through, but instead Derek stopped and looked up with a strange expression on his face. 

Stiles’s heart was in his throat. He braced himself and followed Derek’s eyes to the door frame above them. 

_Mistletoe._

Stiles felt his eyes widen and his face grow hot. He fought to regain control of his face but he was sure he was losing. Derek’s eyes fell down to his and they stared at each other a beat too long, neither of them moving. To diffuse the tension Stiles said, “Pucker up, big guy. It’s tradition.” 

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, exactly, but there was no denying: the fury that darkened Derek’s expression stung like a wolfsbane-dipped knife twisting in his gut, and that was coming from personal experience. 

He made an awkward attempt at laughing it off, slapped Derek on the shoulder and made a beeline for the fireplace. 

Belatedly, Stiles realized his mistake. “Oh shit,” he said. “Wait, are you okay?” 

It had been a long time since any of them had dealt with mistletoe poisoning. Not since Ms. Blake, in fact. It wasn’t a popular weapon against werewolves, not when wolfsbane was more potent and versatile. 

But Derek’s face slipped into confusion. “What?” He said. 

“Mistletoe, dude. Did you touch it?” 

“No. I’m fine.” 

“Is it like—does it affect you from just breathing it in?” 

“I said I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Just then, Derek’s head snapped to the staircase, where a little girl in Frozen footie pajamas was clutching a stuffed octopus and looking at them with wide eyes. She said, “Santa?”

“Uhh,” Derek floundered for a moment before trying to play along. He kept his voice low so as not to wake anyone else. “Yeah, it’s me. Santa.” 

She pointed to Stiles and said, “Who’s that?”

Stiles’s heart was beating fast, panicked. He said, “I’m… his assistant.” 

“Are you an elf?”

“Um, yes?” 

“You don’t look like an elf. And you don’t look like Santa, either.”

Derek said, “I don’t?” 

She shook her head. “You’re not fat enough.”

Stiles choked on his own tongue. 

“I see,” Derek said. “Well, I lost some weight.”

“Where’s your beard?”

“I… shaved.”

“Why’s your hair dark?”

“I dyed it. Trying out a new look. Do you like it?”

“No,” she said. “Did you like my cookies?”

“They were excellent. Did you make them?”

“I helped my mommy make them.”

“You did a great job.”

“Thanks!”

Stiles interjected before this got any more out of hand, “You should go back to sleep, it’s late.” 

“Okay,” she said, sleepy and agreeable. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

Derek said, “Merry Christmas.” 

They watched the little girl walk up the stairs until she disappeared around a corner. Stiles sighed, relieved. “That was way too close,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

By the time they’d gotten rid of the last of the gifts, there was a sliver of pink sunrise coming up over the horizon. Stiles was exhausted, slouched in the sleigh but wide awake with anxiety. 

Derek said, “Got any theories yet?”

“Well, statistically speaking? One or both of us are probably having some sort of hallucination, tied up in some hunter’s torture basement, hooked up to a wolfsbane drip.” He peered over at Derek, but instead of the amusement he was hoping for, he was looking at the ground with wide eyes. “What?”

Derek pointed down. “That.”

Stiles peered over Derek’s side of the sleigh and said, “What. The fuck.”

They were in the middle of a snowy tundra, but there was a quaint little town the reindeer were steering them toward, like something out of a picture book. Stiles slouched back down and covered his eyes with his hands. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, dude.”

“Stiles, on the off chance this isn’t a hallucination, I need you to stay alert and try not to piss anyone off.”

“Like who? _The elves?_ ”

“Whoever is down there.”

“That is the fucking North Pole, Derek.”

“I know.”

“Oh my god.”

They landed just outside of an icy candy cane archway and slid down a snowy lane to the tune of enormous fanfare. There were children on either side of the street, at least three deep, all the way down. They jingled bells and blew trumpets and waved and cheered and they were dressed in little hats and curled shoes and—oh, Stiles sighed. _Elves._

It was a cheap gimmick having children dressed up as elves, and Stiles filed that away as a point in favor of this whole thing being a crock of shit. 

Stiles grit his teeth and fought hard to keep his eyes from rolling up towards the sky. Derek was quiet next to him, and looked strangely stoic, almost regal—his hair blowing gently in the wind. Stiles must have gotten used to the ridiculousness of the outfit. 

Panic started setting in by the time the sleigh reached a towering candy cane pole in the center of a square. It was topped with what looked like a glowing crystal snow-globe. The fucking North Pole. 

Behind it was an enormous, whimsical complex that was clearly Santa’s workshop. It was sparkling with fairy lights and icicles and draped with massive, shining garlands, the effect of it like an ornate, impossible-looking gingerbread house. A gingerbread _castle._

But no matter how whimsical it looked, no matter how completely it reminded him of the fantasies he’d harbored about the North Pole as a child, he had to keep his guard up. 

It was so perfect that it couldn’t possibly be real. It felt like if he managed to find the tiniest flaw, the whole facade would come crashing down. So he focused on the details, on seeing if he could find anything out of place. 

“I have a really bad feeling about this,” he muttered under his breath. 

“Shh,” Derek hissed. 

There was a chorus of welcomes delivered with child-like enthusiasm when they passed the gates of the complex and Stiles had to suppress a shudder because it was one of the creepiest things he’d ever heard. Instead, he followed Derek’s lead and waved back, sure his pasted-on smile was more like a grimace. He said an assortment of things like, “Hey, there. How’s it going?” Instead of what he wanted to say which was, _what the absolute fuck?_ Why were they cheering when, instead of Santa Claus on this sleigh, there was Stiles and Derek—total strangers. 

Everything was bustling with activity, child-elves stopping their tasks to cheer and welcome them before resuming their bustling. The whole place was high ceilings and delicate machinery and toys with a distinctly vintage and aesthetic look to them, rather than video game consoles or Legos or whatever kids these days actually wanted. Gigantic nutcrackers lined the walls like suits of armor and little trains carrying loads of toys zipped around on looping train tracks overhead. 

The sleigh stopped in the center of a circular room, a sort of courtyard or a lobby where above them towered several stories of more of the same. 

Stiles looked at Derek, and though he was trying to project control, Stiles could read the wariness underneath. He sighed and stepped off of the sleigh. 

“Excuse me,” he said to the elves near him, “Who’s in charge here?”

The elves looked at one another, confused. One of them pointed at Derek and said, “Why, he is, of course.” 

“What?”

Another one said, “Santa is in charge.”

Stiles bit back a sigh. Were they stupid? Were they really fooled just because Derek wore that stupid fluffy coat over a t-shirt and sweatpants? “Right. Obviously. I mean like, who’s the… head elf, or whatever?”

“He is,” they said in unison, pointing, again, at Derek. 

Losing patience, Stiles snapped, “Fine! Fine! Can somebody kindly tell me what the hell is going on, then?”

A hush fell over the room. Behind him, Derek stepped out of the sleigh and put a hand on his shoulder. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was out of emotional support or it was an effort to get him to back off. 

Gentler than Stiles had, Derek said, “Is there someone we could speak to?”

A full-grown man in an elf costume cut through the horde of children. Stiles said, “Who are you, Buddy the Elf?”

The man gave him a sarcastic look that said, _cute._ “That movie is offensive. Name’s Bernard.” He held out his hand to Derek over Stiles’s shoulder as if deliberately snubbing Stiles for his faux-pas. “It’s an honor to meet you, Santa.”

“Yeah,” Derek said, brusquely, “The thing is, I’m not Santa. And to be honest with you, we really would like to know what the hell is going on, sooner rather than later. It’s been a long night.”

Bernard the elf-man turned to Stiles and said, “Is he always this Grinchy?” 

Stiles narrowed his eyes and resisted the urge to agree with him, because, yes, he was always this Grinchy. In fact, this was his Grinchiness at an absolute minimum, and Stiles actually felt at least twice as Grinchy at that moment. 

The other elves had by now dispersed, occupied with whatever toy-making related tasks they were doing. Bernard took off at a brisk pace, talking over his shoulder as if expecting them to follow. He said, “The other Santa disappeared, right?”

Stiles strode after him and cut a look at Derek, raising an eyebrow. Not wanting to admit to anything, he said, “That's one way of putting it.”

“And you put on the suit and took the sleigh and delivered the presents, right?”

“If you’re accusing us of stealing, I’ll have you know those reindeer bastards basically kidnapped us.”

Annoyed, Bernard stopped to bark orders at a group of elves and sign some document on a clipboard. 

Stiles took the moment to whisper to Derek, “Is it me or do they not seem even a little surprised or upset by the untimely death of good ol’ Saint Nick?”

Derek grunted, eying Bernard distrustfully. When he returned, Derek snapped, “How do we get out of here?”

“You don’t,” Bernard said, “Not tonight, anyway. The sleigh should be in maintenance by now. Anyway, we have a lot to go over, Santa.”

“I’m not—“ Derek took his voice down from a growl to an annoyed grumble. “I’m not Santa Claus.”

“Look,” Bernard’s tone was very I-don’t-have-time-for-this, which Stiles thought was obnoxious, considering _they_ were the ones being deeply inconvenienced, here. “Did you or did you not read the card?”

“I did.”

Stiles said, “Yeah, I gotta say, it was a little cryptic.”

Bernard ignored him. “Then you’re the new Santa. In putting on the suit, you accepted the contract.”

Stiles said, “What _contract?”_

Bernard reached into Stiles’s back pocket with uncanny precision. Stiles yelled, “Hey! Hey! Easy on the goods, man,” but Bernard paid him no heed. 

He lifted up the business card they’d found on Santa’s corpse and said, “The contract. You said you read it, right?”

“Uh huh. Are you going to elaborate on that, or?” 

He rolled his eyes and said, “Follow me.” 

He led them to a table with a reading lamp and pulled out a golden magnifying glass the size of his entire head. He read aloud, “In putting on the suit and entering the sleigh, the wearer waives any and all rights to any previous identity, real or implied, and fully accepts the duties and responsibilities of Santa Claus in perpetuity until such a time the wearer is unable to do so by either accident or design.”

He handed the magnifying glass to Derek, who took it without an ounce of the hesitation Stiles felt, and bent over to look at the business card. After a few moments, he stood up straight and handed the magnifying glass to Stiles. 

The card was printed with faint wrapping green text that Stiles had mistaken with his bare eyes for a decorative border. He said, “Alright, buddy, there is no way this is legal, first of all, and second of all, he didn’t sign shit.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how this works… what was your name, again?”

Stiles snorted. He knew better. “I didn’t give it.”

“So how _does_ it work, then?” Derek asked. 

“It works like this: you put on the suit, you’re the big guy.”

Stiles said, “No, no, no, that’s not gonna happen. You can forget it.”

“I’m afraid he doesn’t have a choice.”

Derek scoffed. “What are you gonna do, sue me?”

“No, we’re not gonna _sue you.”_

Stiles said, “Then like, I don’t get it, man, what if Derek just says _no_ to your weird little cult, then what?”

“Let me explain something to you. Toys have to be delivered. I’m not gonna do it, it’s not my job, I’m just an elf. It’s Santa’s job—your job, and if you don’t do it, then there would be millions of disappointed children around the world.”

“Yeah, about that—” Stiles started, ready to point out that they only visited some 42 homes, actually, but Bernard talked over him. 

“You see, children hold the spirit of Christmas within their hearts—”

“Oh, what a load of—”

“You wouldn’t want to be responsible for killing the spirit of Christmas, would you, Santa?”

To Stiles’s horror, Derek looked momentarily contrite, as if he was really listening to this shit. Stiles said, “Okay, well, someone else can do it, then. Why do you have to railroad people into it? What kind of fucked up system is that?”

“Listen, it’s just not an option to say no. It’s out of my hands. It’s out of your hands. It’s out of everyone’s hands.” 

“You listen, just because the last Santa fell off Derek’s roof, doesn’t mean he owes you shit.”

“I’m afraid he does. The former Santa ‘fell off the roof’ under your watch, you read the card, you got in the sleigh, and he put on the suit. It’s pretty clear cut.”

“Why did you say ‘fell off the roof’ in air quotes like that? You don’t believe me? You think I _killed him?”_

“You can’t blame me for being suspicious. Who even are you, exactly?” 

“Look, this whole thing is _very_ weird and _very_ creepy, and _I’m_ not the one who’s suspicious, here. I’m not gonna to let you guys blame me for this. He fell off the roof, it’s not like I _shot_ him.” Both Derek and Bernard looked at Stiles silently, judgmentally. “He was breaking and entering and by California law, I have the right to defend private property with up to and including _lethal force._ He’s _lucky_ I didn’t shoot his ass.”

Derek said, “He’s dead either way, I don’t know how lucky that makes him.”

“Whose side are you even on, asshole?” 

“Shut up.” To Bernard he said, “I’ve had enough of this. We’re getting out of here.”

“You can leave in the morning, like I said.”

“Bernard, I’m going to have to insist.”

“It’s simply not possible. Judy can show you to your room.”

A little girl—an elf—Judy appeared beside them with an adorable, sparkling smile, and Stiles did not trust her one bit. 

“Fine,” Stiles said. Derek glared at him, so he tried to communicate with his face that they could regroup after they got someplace private, away from all those pointy little elf ears. He wasn’t sure the message went through, but he turned to Judy and said, “Show us the rooms.” 

“Of course!” she said, brightly. “Please follow me.” 

“Great,” Bernard said, “You have eleven months to get your affairs in order. I’ll have the list sent to you after Thanksgiving.” 

Stiles said, “The what?” but Bernard had already left and it was noisy enough that he was out of earshot. 

Judy answered, “The list! You know—” She started singing, “He’s making a list, checking it twice—”

The surrounding elves erupted into song. _“Gonna find out who’s naughty or nice.”_

“Got it,” Stiles said, darkly.

Judy led them down a hallway and then another, and the setup was labyrinthine enough that Stiles had a hard time mapping it out in his head, in case they needed to make an escape. It was all very beautiful and the level of detail was astonishing for a potential-hallucination, or even more impressive, a real, concrete set for this ruse. 

They came to stop in front of a set of carved, wooden doors. She opened them with a flourish. “This is the Santa Suite, for Santa and Mrs. Claus.” To Stiles she said, “I suppose you’ll be taking on that role.”

Stiles said, “Uh, what, no.”

“Oh,” She said, starting to close the door on him. “Well, then, I suppose we’ll have to find you other accommodations.”

“No! I mean, this is fine. It’s great. I’ll—Yeah, I guess one day I could see myself being, uh... _Mrs. Claus,_ though Santa here hasn’t even popped the question yet, if you can believe it.” 

Judy giggled. Stiles was sweating. He couldn’t look Derek in the eye. “It’s only a matter of time,” she said with a wink. Stiles almost thought he could see a glint in her eye as she did it, and wondered if he was actually losing his mind. It would explain the—everything about this. “You should get out of that suit, it needs to be cleaned. And taken in. There are pyjamas for you both on the bed. Get some sleep. You’ve got a lot of work to do, and only a year to do it.”

“Thanks, Judy,” Stiles said. “We’ll be sure to do that.”

As he and Derek entered the room, Stiles noticed that the door was circled with a tasteful dogwood and mistletoe garland, tied with perfect red velvet bows. Alarm bells sounded in Stiles’s head, for approximately the 57th time that evening.

Stiles yanked the hat off his head and threw it spitefully to the floor. He stopped just inside the doorway to put up wards. It took a few minutes and a lot of his concentration, but he needed to be sure they were hidden enough that they could talk without being surveilled.

When he finally turned around, he found Derek dressed in red satin pyjamas and he almost laughed, insults on the tip of his tongue, before he saw that Derek was standing next to some steampunk looking coffee machine and blowing air into a wide, golden teacup. 

“Hey, whoa, what is that?” He strode across the room and grabbed it out of Derek’s hand, spilling some of its hot contents on his hand and the oriental rug on the floor. “Ow.”

“Hot cocoa,” Derek said, irritably. He tried to grab it back, so Stiles took a couple steps back and held it behind him. 

“Wait. I don’t think you should be drinking this. We don’t know what these things are—“

“Jesus Christ, Stiles.”

“—And although I admire your determination to ingest as many calories as you are physically capable, I really think we should try to err on the side of caution, here.”

Stiles set the cup on a nearby table and Derek’s nostrils flared in annoyance. “That’s rich coming from you. ‘Oh Derek, just try on this coat, what could possibly go wrong?’”

“Hey, I learned my lesson, okay? And in my defense how the fuck was I supposed to see any of _this_ coming?”

Derek took a few moments to breathe in and out through his nose, and said, “So, what, you think eating the food here is going to trap me in the fairy realm?” 

“See, you’re acting like that’s the weirdest thing I could come up with, but look at where we _are,_ Derek.”

Stiles spread his arms out and spun, taking in the room. It was ornate and luxurious and unmistakably Christmassy—red and green and gold, with decorated pine trees and nutcrackers and gingerbread houses. There was a warmly lit fireplace decked out with stockings and snow-globes, and a floor-to-ceiling window view of an honest-to-god winter-fucking-wonderland. 

Derek sighed and collapsed onto the bed. It was bigger than king-size and covered with cozy furs and quilts and pillows. Stiles walked over and sat next to Derek and did not admire the silky slide of red fabric over Derek’s swollen belly as he did. 

He said, “I have a very perceptive eye for evil, why does everyone always doubt me?”

“I don’t doubt you.”

“You don’t?”

“No. There is something wrong with this place.”

“It’s fucking creepy, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

Stiles heaved a deep sigh and rested his head in his hands. He said, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I killed Santa Claus.”

“Stiles, you didn’t—”

“I was just saying that to get them off my back. Of _course_ I fucking killed him. _Got_ him killed, didn’t save him, whatever. Not on purpose, obviously.”

“Obviously. Stiles, I think you’re forgetting about the part where this is isn’t actually real.”

“Well, duh, but what if he was just some poor schmuck like you, who got roped into this against his will? What if he even thought he _was_ Santa Claus?”

“Could be, but it wasn’t your fault, anyway.”

“Wasn’t it? If I just—“ 

“Stop. You couldn’t have done anything. The guy burst into flame.”

“Right. What the fuck was that?”

Derek shrugged with his whole body and fell back against the mattress with a bounce that rocked his body with jiggles. Not that Stiles noticed. He flopped back next to him and turned his head to say, “Look, Derek? I’m gonna get you out of this, okay? Whatever it takes.”

A puff of air huffed from Derek’s nose, and his face twitched in something approximating a smile. He said, “You always do.”

***

Stiles didn’t remember falling asleep. He woke with a start, confused for a moment about where he was. When his eyes adjusted to the morning light streaming through the windows, he realized he was on Derek’s living room couch. 

“What the fuck,” he muttered. He stumbled out to the foyer, spun around, confused, and shouted, “Derek! Derek!” 

Derek came rushing down the stairs, looking frantic, still in those ridiculous pyjamas. 

Stiles gripped his shoulders. “Shit, thank god. Thought you were still trapped in the North Pole for a sec. Wait, was that—“

“Yeah, it was real.” 

“Unless it was some sort of shared hallucination, dreamworld type thing.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” Stiles reached into his back pocket. “Yes! I still have your contract.”

“They let you keep that?”

“They didn’t stop me.”

“Can I see it?” Stiles handed Derek the card and watched him squint ineffectually, adorably at the tiny print. Derek closed his eyes for a moment and said, “What if there is no way out?” 

“I don’t buy that. Look, I told you. I’m not gonna rest until I find one, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And in the meantime, if you see an elf or a reindeer or _anything_ suspicious, you tell me. I’ll be here.” 

“Alright.”

“I’m serious, dude. Even if I’m at school.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s the least I can do for getting you into this mess, big guy.”

A tiny smile flicked at the corners of Derek’s lips. He said, “Thanks.” 

“No sweat.” 

Derek’s head perked up, eyes toward the front door. “Cora and Peter are here. I’ll fill them in. Go tell Scott and the others.”

“Okay.” Stiles searched his pockets for his keys but his fingers wrapped around something else. 

The gift. 

Last chance. 

Heart in his throat, Stiles said, “Derek?”

“Yeah?”

His hand gripped the box in a too-tight fist, no doubt destroying his already questionable wrap job. There was a knock at the door. He chickened out. “Merry Christmas.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed, like he knew that wasn’t what Stiles meant to say at all. He said, “Yeah. You too.”

Derek opened the door and Stiles slipped past Peter and Cora. Cora’s eyebrows were raised high in question, and Peter was leering, uncomfortably. He said, “Stiles,” in that way that made Stiles’s skin crawl. 

“Gotta run you guys, Merry Christmas, I’ll see you later, probably. Got into some weird shit last night—Derek will fill you in.”

As Stiles ran to his car, he heard Peter say, “Hello, Nephew. What an… interesting ensemble.” 

Cora laughed uproariously and said, “What the fuck are you wearing?”

Stiles slammed the Jeep’s door and sped away from the Hale house, his body sizzling with adrenaline and eager to get as far away from Derek as possible so he could attempt to process what had happened last night. He pulled out his phone and called Scott. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think and if you want more lol 
> 
> Also come find me on tumblr!


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